Friday, January 17, 2014

On reading cheerful, forceful poems while depressed.

Invictus by William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


In that wane light that picks out me
Leaving no hidden place or den
I have no hood nor shelter free
To shield me from the view of men.

Though circumstances by enlarge
Were mostly pleasent - others guessed.
They did not know the thoughts who's charge
Shrivelled my soul within my breast.

Beyond this life of dust and lies
Maybe oblivion, maybe not,
But lacking strength to cut the ties,
I can not seek the final shot.

It pleases not, the broad broad road
It pleases not, the winding way.
I am not master of the goad.
I am the donkey pulls the dray.

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